


Somewhere Only We Know

by JHarkness



Category: X-Men (Movies), X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Coming Out, Fluff, M/M, Minor Canonical Character(s), Pining, Sexual Tension, Slow Build, Teen Angst, Underage Sex, teen!Scott
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-26
Updated: 2017-07-26
Packaged: 2017-12-09 12:40:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/774298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JHarkness/pseuds/JHarkness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a teenage Scott Summers escaped the island on which he was imprisoned, he couldn't stop thinking about the mysterious "Wolverine" who liberated him. When Logan shows up at Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters, it's only natural that he is curious. </p><p>He didn't quite realize that he would be falling in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> To all of those who have been following this fic from the start: I apologize profusely for my lack of updates. As you may have noticed, I have an intense love/hate relationship with SOWK. But I have officially decided to place all my effort upon it, so I will be editing the old chapters as well as posting new ones. I suggest re-reading the old stuff for the added information and improved writing. How did you kudo me before (although I appreciate it?)?  
> Thank you for sticking with me. You are the reason I write.  
> To any new readers: Don't hate me.
> 
> PLEASE READ------>Important timeline stuff!: So, this fic takes place in 1985, with Scott being 16. The events of Origins put Logan's rescue of Scott and the others in 1981, but I'm bumping it up to early 1984 for the purposes of this fic (it's not as if the X-Men cinematic timeline is set, anyway). If I actually finish the epilogue I have planned, it will follow the canon of X-Men, not Apocalypse (so it will take place in 2000). The only plot moment I am keeping from Apocalypse is Alex Summer's death, though I am keeping the characters of Jubilee, Storm, and Kurt (but giving them personalities closer to their comic versions). Feel free to comment if you have any questions about the timeline. I think the way I've written it makes more sense than the cinematic universe, but of course I'm the writer, so it has to make sense to me.

Scott Summers gazed up at the stars, shivering as the cold air wrapped itself around his skin. The wind whispered, loud as a curse and just as caustic: _he’s late_. Late as usual. Scott couldn’t recall a time when he hadn’t shown up just when Scott had decided to give up, jumping off that damn motorcycle with a smirk and a promise to do better next time. There was always a next time, always another chance. Too many times and too many chances, because he always knew what to say; how to make Scott accept his worn apologies and beautiful, dangerous promises.

The fine, misty rain turned into an uncomfortable downpour as the minutes passed. Scott let the drops cover his face and seep into his clothing. Most of the lights from the mansion were out. He liked that he could see it from here, liked that there was an anchor tethering him to something other than this.

Scott waited until he was shivering to seek shelter, distracted by the clouds his breath made around his face and the sounds he liked to believe were coming from a Harley’s engine. He spared a thought for Storm, wondering if this was her doing, like her suffering somehow reflected his in that moment. And then he hated himself for wishing her that pain and cast his eyes around for a place to get dry.

Rushing to crumbling excuse for a shed, Scott ducked in just as thunder clapped overhead. The moldy walls and cracked ceiling offered little escape from the icy wind, but it was something. Scott grimaced. Various tools and parts were littered around the storage shed, rusting from disuse and neglect. While still on the professor’s property, the shed had not been used for some time, likely built when servants still roamed the grounds in the Professor’s early days. Scott examined a shallow etching in the wall as he paced to warm himself; initials, hastily but delicately carved, stood out on the molded wall. It was too dark to read them, so Scott traced the letters with his shaking fingertips. ‘EL, CX.’ Brow furrowed, Scott considered who they could belong to.

Over the rain came the soft rumbling of an engine, and Scott stopped thinking. He squeezed his eyes shut, stomach curling—in anticipation, giddiness, sadness, or elation he couldn’t tell. He didn’t have a moment to decide anyway. Heavy steps sounded outside of the door. It was pried open within seconds, and soon, warm, resilient hands were pulling Scott in for an embrace. His fingers dug into Scott’s back as they stood, alone together.

“Hey, Slim,” he muttered. Scott could feel the sound vibrate though his chest.

“I missed you, Logan.”


	2. One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think it is important to note that this follows the cinematic storyline provided by Origins Wolverine and not XMA. So, Scott and Logan's first meeting was on the island when Logan rescued the captured mutants before facing "Deadpool" (I'm still shaking my head so hard about that, Fox.), and NOT when Jean stopped Weapon X after his rampage. However, it does account for Alex Summer's death in XMA. It also ignores Days of Future Past.

Scott Summers knew one thing for certain in his life. In the midst of not understanding himself, his mutation, or his parents—he knew that high school was deplorable. No matter how many friends he had, no matter how diligently his teachers worked to help him. Even if he was top of his class at Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters, high school was an exercise in pretending not to drown and simultaneously just wishing someone would let you.

He was in no way unappreciated at the Academy. ‘Popular’ was often the word applied to it by the teachers, as if being a natural leader with a tragic past gave him the skill of collection. The youngest mutants were awed, even more so than by the older students. At sixteen, Scott had everything they wanted; fashion, confidence, girls. He’d laughed until tears burned in his eyes when he overheard a new student being told of his achievements by her roommates. The clothes and the confidence—bordering on arrogance, Jean often said—were a result of his wealthy family, and his arrival in a limousine had solidified that rumor his first day. All varsity jackets and sunglasses, he was the proper jock of the school. But the ‘girls’ part of it never made sense to Scott.

He preferred to shrug off the assumption and move on. There were various benefits, of course. Teachers here did not put him in detention for keeping his glasses on, but rather encouraged exploration of his curious mutation. And they tried not to compare him to his brother.

Scott felt it all the same. He heard the whispers, “ _That_ Scott Summers?” It was easy to separate the categories of gossip—pity for the kid who lost his brother too soon, disappointment that he could not live up to Alex, or curiosity simply because of his relation to Xavier’s first class. The latter was the worst; the students liked to accuse the Professor of favoritism and hated Scott endlessly for it. Privately, of course, because they wanted to stay in his favor. But Scott wished desperately they would just say something. Wished he could have a moment to break out of their mold, or maybe his. He wanted to prove… something. In truth, he would give anything to walk unnoticed.

Nearly two years had passed since his enrollment. Despite his following, he had few people he counted among his friends. The leader he considered himself to be began to shrivel under disinterest, something cynical replacing it. Uninterested, his effort declined. His headaches came back. But he had fit himself into that life and was almost content with the idea of living it.

And then he showed up.

Scott could not shake the feeling of familiarity that washed over him when the man walked into the school. One moment there was a knock at the door, and then there was a man who looked more like a beast than Professor McCoy. Scott craned his neck to look around the circle of people who had followed him from class, begging him in hushed voices to take them into the city. With permission, Scott had been fixing an old red Mustang in his free time.

Without permission, he’d been taking it out to New York City when he was supposed to be sleeping. He had no doubts the Professor knew, and was enormously thankful that he had yet to be stopped.

But all thoughts of the car slipped his mind when the man came into view. Jaw going slack, Scott let the excited voices of his peers fade around him. The memory of the man came from his stature. His entirety screamed military, from the active way his eyes followed the room to the alertness of his body—nothing escaped his notice, and his ears and nose were constantly pricked to make sure it stayed that way. Radiating something feral, the man listened to the cacophony of the school with annoyance. His jaw was set firmly against the giggling and complaints and shrill voices. But there was something missing behind his eyes.

Scott tugged on a sweater that was suddenly far too tight, skin heating with curiosity.

“…right, babe? Scott?” A girl with fiery red hair snapped her fingers in front of his face, lips pursed in agitation. Still transfixed, Scott was unable to respond. Sighing, the girl put her hands on her hips and followed his gaze down the corridor.

“Oh,” she cooed when he saw what had so fully captured Scott’s attention. The other students had since caught on that their idol was no longer interested and started to disperse. Those who stayed lingered awkwardly.

Laughing, Scott nudged his friend with his elbow. She laughed with him until he spoke her name, tone too serious for their shared amusement. “Jean.”

Jean raised an eyebrow, and Scott felt her searching his mind for an explanation. He scrunched his nose against the pervading sensation; it felt as if someone was scratching his brain. With a shiver, Scott tapped her shoulder and then his own temple, hoping that she could tell his eyes were squinted in irritation behind his glasses. Ignoring him, she waited to withdraw until she found the memory.

“Oh my God… I thought so. That’s—that’s—” She hit his arm excitedly, rolling her eyes when he motioned for her to calm down. “That’s the guy from the island.”

Scott nodded, slowly, swallowing as the initial adrenaline faded. He was here. Really here. Mouth dry, Scott looked to Jean for some sort of answer, or maybe comfort. Bile rose in his throat as he recalled what happened to him there, and what could have happened if Emma’s sister hadn’t brought the man to them. Jean only knew from stories; Scott and Emma, as well as the other liberated students, refused to subject her to the horrors they had faced, even when she offered to bury the memories for them.

Never really knowing why he had chosen not to take that offer, Scott felt like the mansion’s newest guest was at least a part of the answer. Scott felt drawn to him in a way he didn’t want to contemplate, because it felt like he owed this man something, yet wanted to cast him from the mansion for calling those memories to the surface. It was a horribly juxtaposed thing, and the attraction buried under it only succeeded in making him more embarrassed.

“Why don’t you go talk to him?” Jean shoved Scott’s shoulders, but he pushed back against her hands, shaking his head violently.

“No. No way, Jean.”

“Yes way.”

Searching wildly for an excuse, he blurted, “I—I don’t even know his name!” It was true; in his efforts to forget everything about that time in his life, Scott never asked Emma the name of their rescuer. She knew things about him because of her sister, and liked to talk about how much her sister had loved him. Scott knew she never gave up hope that he was out there, seeking revenge for what had been taken from both of them. He couldn’t wait to tell her.

Jean bypassed that barrier with ease. “His name is Logan, I think.” Her eyebrows lifted as she tilted her head. “I think that’s what Emma told me. You never asked?”

Scott scoffed, glaring at Jean from the corner of his eye. Discovering the hero’s name was not on the forefront of his mind as he attempted to ingratiate himself in a society of mutated people, who with the exception of a few incredibly strange abilities, still acted like children. He said as much.

“Alright, alright,” she placated, waving her hands to ward off any further bitterness.

She turned her attention back to Logan. He was fidgeting, restless as Beast talked. Scott almost smiled; he could sympathize, especially if McCoy was doing the speech he favored when mutant parents arrived with their budding mutant children, all interested smiles and excited queries. Logan looked incredibly reluctant to listen, and Scott wondered when the Professor, who was certainly listening, would take pity on him.

Scott must have looked foolish gaping at him, because Jean giggled and wrapped her arms around Scott’s torso until they were pressed together. Someone wolf-whistled from the corner. They ignored it. Instead, Jean bent to whisper in his ear, “Somebody wants Logan’s hot, wet—” Scott punched Jean lightly on the arm to stop her, breaking free of her arms’ hold. She doubled over, dissolving into more giggles.

“I beg you, stop,” Scott mumbled, blood rushing to his face in an instant. He checked hurriedly to see if Logan had noticed them yet, stomach in knots but a nervous smile tugging at his lips. Until—

“Jean, please… please stop.”

 “Why—should—I?” She managed between laughs, “I haven’t seen you smile in too long.”

It was a fair point. Sometimes he still woke with the feeling of Alex’s arms wrapped around his shoulders like when he was a child and his voice in his head, telling him it would be okay, that everything was okay. But most days the image of the school and a black mark in the dirt where his brother should be took it all away again.

Scott gritted his teeth. He didn’t need that, not right now. “Because he is coming over here.”

Leaning her chin on Scott’s shoulder to watch, Jean chewed her bubblegum quietly. Logan’s stalked toward them with Beast at his heels. His lips moved in a scowl, fighting themselves into what was probably meant to be a smile. It came close, but it was too forced, too wrapped in a façade of the charming, affable stranger. Scott knew that defense well.

“Mission accomplished, then.” Jean kissed his cheek lightly and ran off, winking and grinning ferociously. Scott immediately felt vulnerable and exposed with her gone, and tried pathetically to find someone to talk to as Logan neared. But in his staring, he had missed the class period bell, leaving Scott alone with the stragglers, miscreants, Hank McCoy, and Wolverine.

“Hey, Slim. Know where I can find this Xavier guy?”

Scott met McCoy’s eyes questioningly, wondering why he hadn’t just taken Logan there in the first place. Logan watched the silent interaction and huffed. “This guy seems more interested in my life than getting me where I need to go.” Scott could hear something resembling nervousness behind the humor, as if Logan didn’t actually have the answers about his life, instead of simply being unconcerned with disclosing them.

“I must ensure your presence won’t be a threat to the students. We’ve had incidents—”

“Relax, furball, I just need to talk to the guy in charge.”

Hank seemed unperturbed by the nickname. Some of the students liked to use it because of _Star Wars_ , and the youngest children adored his hairy exterior. On more than one occasion they had tried to braid his hair, which had _definitely_ not been Scott’s suggestion.

Feeling uncomfortable caught between the two of them, Scott took a deep breath, quelling the urge to do something he would regret, and answered Logan. “Uh, yeah, sure.” He tangled his fingers together, bouncing on his heels. When he finally looked away from McCoy and met Logan’s gaze, he was staring expectantly. Scott squared his shoulders.

“I can take you there, if you’d like.” He hated that he was acting so formal, but he felt compelled to both impress his teacher and convince Logan that he wasn’t just some useless student.

Logan nodded, pleased, if not a little smug as well. Professor McCoy looked flustered. “That isn’t your decision, Scott.”

 _It’s alright, Hank_.

Since Logan didn’t look alarmed, Scott assumed he and McCoy were the only two who had heard Xavier’s voice. McCoy heaved a long-suffering sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose, shaking his head.

“Fine.”

If Logan was confused by the sudden lack of objection he didn't show it. Instead, he looked down the hallway, impatient. “Lead the way, kid.”

Scott bristled, previously warm feelings about Logan leaving him in a rush. There was very little he disliked more than being patronized.

“Scott,” he corrected, voice laced with resentment. “And I am not a _kid_.”

Logan regarded him for a moment. “You’re what, fifteen?”

Scott shot back, “Sixteen.” He bit the inside of his cheek.

Hand bouncing against his thigh, Logan just chuckled. “Then you’re still a kid by my standards.” Scott glowered at him, his mixed feelings long forgotten as he seethed.

Scott started walking, making sure to keep away from Logan, and moved swiftly. He knew it was neither the most mature nor the most deserved response, and that it was probably proving the other man’s point, but it seemed like the only possible one anyway.

McCoy didn’t offer a comment. The walk to Xavier’s office was an eternity of thudding shoes and shallow breaths. When they reached the door, Scott stopped, happy to turn away and eager to stop caring. Before he could turn away, however, Logan grabbed his wrist. Immediately a low growl started in McCoy’s throat. Glaring, Scott pulled at his arm, but found it stuck in Logan’s grasp. He was not accustomed to feeling overpowered, but he did not find it necessarily unpleasant. Swallowing, Scott decided that was something he did not need to explore.

The growl moved closer to a snarl, and Logan released Scott carefully. Scott noticed his knuckles ripping and met his eyes again. They were guarded now, and no longer playing at friendliness. Maybe it was the real Logan.

But then he spoke, and his voice was light. “It wasn’t an insult, Scott.”

Scott’s nose wrinkled, and Logan shrugged, like he didn’t care whether Scott believed him or not. A retort was lodged in Scott’s throat, but all that came out when he opened his mouth was a shaky breath. He turned, coughing.

“Hey, k—Scott,” he started, stumbling to correct himself. It made Scott’s stomach boil. “You guys got an extra room around here somewhere?”

Scott looked back, the odd sensation in his chest caused by the question quickly morphing into utter confusion. Despite this, his reply was scathing. “I doubt we’d have room for you.”

Logan narrowed his eyes before chuckling, almost appreciating the retort. “Well,” he said, dismissal already coating his tone. “See you around.”

He heard Logan apologize curtly to McCoy as the office door opened, and then he was gone. Scott curled his hands behind his neck as he walked away. Jean was right: he wanted this guy so much it _hurt_. And he hated him for it.

Later, when Jean asked, Scott told her that Logan was probably better off in a petting zoo.

That did not stop his brain from creating the most desirable of images that night. For once, his sleep was uninterrupted by Alex’s death and his own childhood of fear and hatred. Instead, firm hands cupped his face, followed the curves of his body, and traced lines in his skin. The breath on his skin wasn’t hot with anger, but soft with desire. And when he woke up, Logan’s name was on his lips.


	3. Two

Waking up was not an easy affair. Scott slowly acclimated to the sunlight stretching into the room, feeling it warm his calves where they stuck out from under the covers. Not long after, he began to feel the stickiness of his boxer shorts. He groaned, his usual headache forming behind his eyelids already. Perpetually warring against a migraine made wake-up calls at five in the morning more unpleasant than they were for most people.

Scott reached over to check for his alarm clock, curious why it wasn’t blaring. He no longer required it to wake him, but the sound motivated him to actually get out of bed, or at least move enough to no longer be comfortable staying in it. His eyes opened behind his visor just in time to see it crash against the wall.

Sitting up hastily, Scott yelped. He gaped at the wall where the clock had made contact. It was an absolute wreck; bits of wires and gears protruded from the plastic, spread out on the floor like the gore from a murder scene. Scott felt like he should at least go pick it up, but he was frozen in his bed, mind whirling as he tried to figure out who was the clock’s enraged assassin. Jean was his first thought. But then he remembered that she had left before nine for a lesson with the professor, and he had been left alone with thoughts of Logan. A jolt of desire ran though him even as he tried to push it away, screwing his eyes shut behind his nighttime visor. He could go for a run, or get a cold shower. Skip class. Go work on the Mustang—

Scott’s thoughts were interrupted by a frustrated growl to his left, and he inhaled sharply as he grabbed at his daytime visor. That gave him more control over his powers, allowing him to discharge the beam at will with the flip of a switch, while the ones he wore now were designed specifically to prevent any flow. He had Dr. McCoy to thank for both, but figured if intrusions into his room continued, he would return the night version.

Finally focused, Scott untangled himself from the covers and stood. The other bed in his room had been covered with army-like precision, but the sheets were pulling at the corners because of the mass settled in the middle of the bed.

That mass was Logan, the Wolverine.

Logan’s chest was still above the sheets. He was covered in a thin layer of sweat and many more layers of hair, and his hazel eyes were fixed on Scott, half-lidded from exhaustion. Scott gulped, oxygen refusing to fill his lungs. He felt overexposed and senseless, standing there in his boxers like he could fight off someone who had made it all the way into the school and his room without detection.

Scott didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know why the professor had made Logan his roommate of all people, especially when they had other rooms available, and certainly didn’t understand why the man was even staying in the mansion. Logan seemed like someone who wasn’t looking for a home, only answers. So Scott settled on, “You destroyed my clock.”

“It was loud.”

His voice was just gravel, muffled by the pillow that was pressed to his face to block out the noise. Scott briefly considered that Logan’s sensitive hearing would make the incessant beeping unbearable, and then chastised himself for not being more indignant. He had no right to disrupt what Scott had. No matter what Xavier said, Scott was determined to see the man gone—he didn’t belong there.

“Why are you here?” It was harsh, hostile. Scott was proud of the force behind it. Rolling his shoulder so Scott could see his face clearly, Logan smirked and settled against the headboard with his arms bent behind his head.

“I guess you could say I’m your new roommate.” He didn’t seem interested in elaborating further.

Scott scowled. “Right.”

It was easy to succumb to the frustration, the anger. It made gritting his teeth and offering his most unwelcome smile a simple task, and it made looking away from the beautifully toned muscles of Logan’s torso less painful.

Scott caught himself licking his lips and swiftly backed away. He went straight to bathroom and locked the door, spreading his hands on the counter to steady himself, and breathed. His throat felt tight, similar to his chest.

Crisp, cold water flowed from the faucet when he turned it on. Scott let it fill in his cupped hands and then threw it over his mouth and cheeks. When he looked back up to the mirror, he felt the initial flare of heat he had felt fade away, leaving a dull throb in his chest. He had never been someone to act irrationally; his parents were air force veterans, his brother was dead, and all of three of them had taught him to be critical and reserved. He would not let Logan take that away.

Unlocking the door, Scott peered out of the bathroom only to see Logan fast asleep once more, chest rising and falling with each breath. Scott cleared his throat. The sound had little effect; Logan simply turned his back to Scott, and the blanket pulled to expose the very bottom of his spine. When he stretched, his muscles rippled beneath his skin. Scott felt his face heating again and made his way to his closet.

He pulled on a gray tank top and a pair of jeans that almost had more grease marks than denim. His fingers gripped his own shirt tightly, pulling at the fabric distractedly. He considered the homework he had forgotten to do, the book Professor Xavier had assigned— _The Hound of the Baskervilles_ —and what he was going to buy for Ororo’s birthday. But that could wait—he needed his mind anchored, and working on his car would accomplish just that. 

Jean was waiting outside his room when he opened the door. Scott groaned. She would undoubtedly drag him away from the garage and to class. Sure enough, when she saw him her face split into a wide grin and she took his arm, already launching into a detailed description of her lesson with Professor Xavier. Scott tried to listen, smiling and nodding at the proper moments, but there was only so much he could hide from her. Jean’s powers were improving every day, and Scott’s abilities to defend his mind were not as quick to follow. 

By the time they sat down for their first class of the day, Jean had learned everything about Scott’s unexpected morning.

“He did not.”

Scott nodded furiously, pen gripped tightly in his hand. “He did.” Hank was rattling on about derivatives, but Scott and Jean couldn’t have cared less. Jean gasped, holding her hand in front of her mouth before her lips pulled together in a suggestive smile. Scott’s shoulders shook as he laughed quietly at her.

“And he—He didn’t tell you what he was doing there?” She asked, unconvinced as she attempted to change the focus from herself.

“No, and I don’t want to.” Jean raised her eyebrows, skeptical, and Scott shook his head. “Seriously, Jean. He may make me hard, but I don’t want him in my room, or at this school, any longer. The Professor can help him with what he needs and then he should be on his way.”

“Mr. Summers, do you have something to contribute?” Caught, Scott stuttered, staring from the chalkboard to Jean pathetically. She looked away to stifle another fit of laughter and left Scott to his misery. He was saved from answering only by the bell.

Scott and Jean talked incessantly in the hall, and Jean tried to steer the conversation away from Logan. Scott followed her lead despite how obvious her attempt was. The pair drew curious glances as they walked to English. Everyone assumed they were dating, but then as _the_ couple of the school, it was unusual for them to be alone; Scott and Jean were followed nearly every moment by friends and gossip.

The friends arrived first.

Ororo Munroe and Jubilation Lee took their seats beside Scott, interrupting Jean’s request to go to the city later in the day. “Did you guys hear about that guy that showed up yesterday?” Ororo began, more to Jean than Scott. He rolled his eyes. Here was the gossip.

The girls talked past Scott to Jean. He tried to drown them out as he skimmed the reading he had forgotten, but his mind continued to focus on the man they were so eager to discuss. He almost snorted a few times. If they had met him, they would be doing their best to avoid him.

“Isn’t it true he saved your life, Scott? Well anyway, that’s what Emma said, and…”

As he considered weighing in, the professor appeared. Scott’s attention snapped to him. He offered a small smile as he leaned back in his chair, and Xavier returned it. Scott was not a brownnoser by any means. The majority of his teachers before Xavier’s school considered him a loner, a troublemaker, and the ones after agreed with the latter. He let them categorize him as they saw fit, but he revered the Professor, and always worked diligently for him. It was rare he received something other than an A, and when he did, he knew he deserved it.

Nonetheless, five minutes into class, Scott found that the lecture could not keep his attention. His anger was returning with a vengeance, and it was seeping into his thoughts. He knew it was unfair to take it out on the Professor, but the man must have known he and Logan would clash. Logan was rude and unkind, sparing no thoughts for anyone but himself. If Xavier were someone else, if he could stomach the thought of turning someone away, Scott wouldn’t be in this situation. He closed his eyes and tucked his fist under his chin, staring out the window. Jean eyed him inquisitively.

Xavier called for Scott, and the class turned to him, watching, waiting.

Scott exhaled slowly as he tried to remember where they were in the lesson. It clicked into place, though not quickly enough to avoid sneers and chuckles from his peers. Scott sat up straighter, more than a little smug as he rejoined the discussion. He shot a grimace and a mock hum of laughter to Warren, who had been particularly vocal in ridiculing Scott.

“Well, though not the first, I think Conan Doyle certainly is one of the most prominent authors to inadvertently bring mutant-kind to literature. Sherlock Holmes could not have been the expert he was if he was simply human,” he contributed, words rolling smoothly as if I had rehearsed them. “Even most mutants, debatably a higher species, do not possess that type of intellect. Therefore, despite the argument that the fiction provides an outlet for wishful thinking when it comes to human intelligence, I believe that we can safely conclude that Sherlock Holmes was meant to be a higher being. A mutant.”

The class shared mixed reactions, ranging from gaping to rolled eyes and nods of agreement. “Indeed,” was all the professor said aloud, amusement seated in his kind eyes. He continued wordlessly, _do you like your new roommate?_

Scott shook himself. Though he was familiar with the mutation by now, it was still wholly unsettling being spoken to while said person was simultaneously giving a lecture. He responded somewhat sheepishly. _If I ignore his personality._

Scott caught the Professor smiling, which he played off well to the class.

_What?_

_Thank you for sharing that with me, Scott_.

Scott nodded, turning back to his book. He followed along the excerpt they were reading, but with little concentration, annoyed that he was back to Logan. Again.

Jean caught Scott’s attention and nudged his shoulder, a grin drawing up her mouth. She shifted her notebook closer to him, tapping on something in the corner. _Let’s get out of here?_

Eyes still on the chalkboard, Scott picked up his pen and wrote a sloppy ‘yes’ directly under her neatly-written question. After a moment of consideration, he added, ‘but not the city’ in bold lettering. Jean laughed. They skipped History and lunch in the mansion and walked around the grounds instead, sharing one apple between them. Jean idly twirled leaves around her fingers. Scott held the apple while she took a bite, and even though her red lipstick left a stain, he brought it to his mouth after.

“What are we doing about your not-so-charming knight in shining armor, then?”

Wiping the apple juice away from his mouth, Scott barked out a short laugh.

“Well he is,” Jean insisted. She shrugged at Scott’s incredulous expression and let the leaves fall. Scott watched them float to the ground and settle in the short grass, wishing he could see them in shades of green rather than shades of red. “Even if you don’t think so anymore, Emma certainly does. Weren’t you listening to Storm today?” Scott gave her a sideways glance. She waved it away, frowning.

“She and her little hellfire groupies are _really_ interested.”

Scott’s heart jumped to his throat, and he felt a wave of jealously so strong it burned. His nails dug into his palm as he consciously tried to relax himself, but Jean had seen it, and she cocked her head knowingly.

“Jealous?”

Swallowing the heat, Scott scrambled for an excuse. “He’s crude, complacent, brutish,” Scott counted each quality off on his fingers.

“Hot,” Jean added. Scott threw his hands in the air.

“I just. I don’t want Emma to get hurt. I don’t think he’s even capable of being in a relationship… or, well, feelings. The sooner he leaves, the happier I’ll be.”

Jean was not convinced. She hummed quietly and twirled in place, poking at Scott’s chest whenever she could reach him. Then they walked in silence for a few moments, words festering in Scott’s mind and threatening to spill over in an incoherent stream.

“I’m at a loss here, Jean,” Scott finally said. His voice was quiet with defeat. “I don’t know what to say to convince you.” To convince himself. She put her arm around his shoulders in response, settling for tacit comfort with her head tucked under his neck. It wasn’t long before they stopped walking. Fallen leaves continued to glide over the ground, but Jean’s eyes were marveling at the bright blue of the autumn sky. There was blood dripping from her nose.

Panic bubbled in his chest. Professor Xavier had requested she begin private tutoring with him around two months ago, concerned by the impressive rate at which her powers were growing. He hadn’t mentioned anything like this. Leaves stirred against Scott’s legs, and he looked to see each one hovering ankle-height as far as he could see. He kicked it down, only to watch it rise again. Glancing toward Jean, Scott noticed that her eyes, usually so full of life, seemed dark and vacant. And there was a red tinge, not just from his visor.

“Jean?” He shook her arm. “Are you okay?”

Jean’s head snapped up, and the vacancy was filled. She continued the conversation as if there had been no break, a sad smile reaching her lips. Her hand moved to Scott’s cheek, and noticing his open mouth and panicked breaths, asked, “Are you?” Her words were barely audible.

Scott pulled back and lifted her hand from his face. “Of course.” Her nails scraped softly against his as their hands linked, and he brought hers up to place a soft kiss on her knuckles. “I have you.”

Jean scoffed good-naturedly and ran ahead, her clear laugh ringing around the grounds. Scott watched her with a smile, almost forgetting that she was fighting the extent of her own powers, that he couldn’t even control his.

He jogged to catch up with her, and they were back in the mansion before the bell rang. When Emma saw them, she caught up and whispered something about ‘needing the kind of alone time you two get’ to Jean, who just shrugged it off. Both girls headed off to class, leaving Scott to his free period. He usually spent the time in the garage, but his migraine was even more painful than usual, and he wished for nothing more than to crawl back into bed. When he finally stumbled back to his room, that was exactly what he did. He didn’t even bother undressing.

The heat was almost suffocating, but he buried himself deeper anyway. His eyes were just starting to close when the door was thrown open.

Grunting loudly, Scott twisted the covers over his head in an irritated whirl. Logan huffed from the doorway. He quirked his eyebrows slightly, eyes bright. “Tell me how you really feel.” He closed the door gently, a small smile playing on his mouth.

Scott couldn’t believe that he was that this arrogant. “You’re an asshole,” he supplied from beneath the pillows. It was more a garbled mess than words, but he didn’t have the energy to repeat it. He did force the covers off, however; enough that he could glare at his roommate.

Logan smirked. “That’s not new information, kid.”

 “Whatever,” he snapped, immediately regretting the word. He scoffed at himself, exasperated by his inability to prove Logan wrong. _Kid_. The moniker made Scott bristle, buried in his skin like a thorn.

“I’m not—”

“Yeah, you’re not a kid, I get it.” Logan waved him off and moved farther into the room. His mouth twitched as if he was amused, which just pissed Scott off more. But he couldn’t stop focusing on the line of his shoulders as he walked to his duffel bag and pulled out a change of clothes. On his way to the bathroom, Logan stopped at the foot of Scott’s bed. Scott flinched when he sat. The glint in Logan’s eyes was replaced by a guarded, level gaze. He didn’t stand, but tensed noticeably, keeping his distance as Scott curled up closer to his pillows. Scott realized Logan thought he was afraid; in truth, he was more concerned about what how he would react if Logan came any closer. One touch, no matter how casual, would destroy any control he had.

“Look,” Logan said, the word coming out on a sigh. “You don’t have to like me. Hell, you’re not the easiest to warm up to. But I need the Professor’s help and he put me here for a reason. So just stay out of my way and I’ll stay out of yours, alright?”

Scott wasn’t expecting that. It stung a little, even though it was completely fair. He kept his voice even as he replied. “Fine with me.”

Logan nodded.

"Good."


	4. Three

The week following Logan’s arrival passed without incident, primarily because Logan was hardly ever in the room. He spent most days in the medical bay, danger room, or kitchen, fighting until he couldn’t and then drinking his weight before falling back into his bed. Scott knew he’d been somewhere by the lingering scent of cigars and sweat. And he held on to it desperately. It made his chest tight every time he caught it, enough that he risked lying in Logan’s bed on more than one occasion. He drew the line at trying on Logan’s jacket.

It wasn’t long until the other students noticed where Logan ended his days. Emma was the first to ask, though Scott wouldn’t exactly qualify it as ‘asking.’ She found him on the grounds during target practice; Scott felt her mind’s touch before he saw her. The feeling was wholly different from Jean and the Professor. They were cautious, warm, friendly. Emma’s telepathy was sensual the same way secret touches and warm breaths were. But they were also unwelcome. Scott closed his eyes and focused on closing his mind the way Jean had taught him to, and he felt the protections click into place. From behind him, Emma clucked her tongue disappointedly.

“I was hoping you’d seen him naked or something.”

“I haven’t.”

“Hm.” Emma walked around to face him. Scott could hear other students behind him, watching breathlessly. “I don’t believe you.” She narrowed her eyes. Scott could tell she was concentrating because she always pursed her lips and cocked her head slightly to the left when she did. It was a wonderful tell, one that had served him well in danger room simulations. Now, however, it only annoyed him, because he knew she was looking for his. She stepped closer, and her hand came to rest on his collar bone. Blinking up at him, she slid her hand down his chest.

“Don’t,” Scott warned, catching it. His lip curled.

“Whatever you say, Scotty,” she whispered, voice low. It sent a shiver down Scott’s spine, but not a pleasant one. It almost sounded like a threat. Emma pulled her arm back with more force than necessary, making sure Scott appeared to be holding her wrist like a vise. She feigned at rubbing her sore wrist, drawing sympathetic murmurs and gasps of outrage from her groupies. With a wink she turned away, collecting the onlookers with one look.

Scott threw the target disc he had been holding down and watched it shatter. He cursed forcefully and unhooked his visor, arms shaking. He switched them out for ruby quartz sunglasses and tossed them to join the disc.

A loud _bamf_ shocked Scott enough that he was almost the third thing to wind up in the grass. He staggered back, but was caught by Kurt’s tail wrapping around his stomach. The smell of brimstone assaulted him and he coughed, smoke and the tail constricting him taking his breath away. “Fuck, Kurt!” Scott managed before being let go. This time, Kurt caught him with his hands, steadying him while apologizing profusely. His accent was so thick Scott barely understood, so he just nodded, waving away his friend’s concern. “I’m fine, I’m fine.”

“Oh.” Kurt stepped away, eyeing Scott warily. “Ve saw you across ze grounds. You looked angry.”

Scott scratched his head. “We?”

Kurt nodded and looked around for agreement. When he realized no one else was there, he laughed sheepishly and shrugged at Scott. “I forget zem.”

“Wha—?” Kurt was gone before he could finish the question, vanishing in another cloud of smoke that made the brimstone even stronger. Scott gagged. A few more _bamfs_ later and Jubilee, Ororo, Jean, and Kurt joined him. They were in the process of congratulating Kurt for two-person teleportation when he doubled over, sick. Jean was immediately by his side, checking his pulse and temperature, stroking his back.

“Should I get help?” Jubilee asked. She had started unstrapping her roller blades since they were on the grass, and she doubled her efforts while she watched Jean with Kurt. Scott shook his head.

“She’s got it, don’t you, Jean? ‘Ro, can you get him some water?” Both girls nodded, easily slipping into team mode. They had discovered in early danger room simulations that Scott was the best leader for the team, and it naturally bled into their time outside of it. Kurt breathed slowly, clutching his chest; teleporting with more than one person was taxing, let alone doing it three times. Scott was torn between concern and frustration. His friend knew he wasn’t supposed to push himself without teacher supervision, but Scott understood firsthand wanting to prove himself to his peers without being coddled. Still—

“Let’s not try that again, you hear me?”

“ _Ja_.” Kurt straightened up shakily, aided by Jean and Ororo. He offered a timid smile. “I think zat iz good.” Scott nodded once, curtly, before allowing himself a modicum of fear. He exhaled slowly. The remainder of his boldness faded, leaving Scott to his sweaty palms and tight throat.

“You look worse than Kurt,” Ororo whispered, bumping his shoulder. Scott blinked and forced a laugh. What kind of a leader would he be if he fell apart as soon as the danger passed? Scoffing, he pushed back against Ororo. He reassured her quietly before going over to Kurt; to him he offered another stern warning as well as a warm smile. All things considered, it had been rather impressive.

A sly grin stretched over Jean’s face. Before Scott could dissuade her, she turned to the team and announced, “I think—”

“Jean—!”

“I think what Kurt needs is a trip to the city,” she finished, voice coated with mischief. She stuck her tongue out at Scott, knowing full well that he couldn’t say no now, not when there was a chorus of voices begging Scott to uncover the Mustang for the weekend. He thought of excuses—homework, exhaustion, the autumn chill—but just as quickly heard them shot down.

“We _know_ you finished next week’s work already.”

“As if you weren’t planning to stay up watching Star Trek.”

“I can make sure we all stay warm, Scott. I control the weather.”

“I vant to see that Teenage Volf movie.”

Scott laughed fondly at all of them. He fished the keys out of his jacket pocket and twirled the key ring around his index finger. Watching his friends’ impatient fidgeting, Scott tossed them in the air, and then caught them a few times as he made a show of deliberating. He checked his watch before sliding his hands into his pockets. “I guess I could use a new jacket.”

Jean raised her fist triumphantly, humming Simple Mind’s ‘Don’t You’ as she made her way toward Scott. She threw her arm around his shoulder and kissed his cheek.

“I knew you’d come around.”

Scott shrugged, but he couldn’t conceal his smile. “I just want an excuse to drive her.”

“Uh-huh.”

They made their way to the garage, arguing playfully about their plan for the day. It was barely noon, which meant that everything was open and wouldn’t be closing any time soon; Scott loved the city for that very reason. It was so full of life, so different from his hometown in Alaska. He had hours of daylight and no one to question his sunglasses.

He stroked the door of the Mustang adoringly as he approached, ignoring ‘Ro sniggering at him as she hopped into the back seat. Scott choked when her heel almost snagged the folded convertible hood. Storm pointed at his face and laughed, wiggling her heel in the air. Jubilee took Scott’s glare as her cue to use the door. She settled neatly into the car, her yellow vinyl jacket a shock against the brown leather seats, and gave Scott a thumbs up. The unreasonably loud _pop_ of her bubblegum that followed was reminiscent of Kurt’s teleportation.

“Vasn’t me,” Kurt joked. He slid between Storm and Jubilee and even held his tail so as to not scrape the paint or interior. Scott mimed kissing him, and Kurt wiggled in place gleefully. Scott had been particularly worried when he came out to Kurt because of how religious his friend was, which only accomplished upsetting Kurt so badly that he avoided Scott for nearly a week. When Scott had finally—tearfully—apologized, Kurt had kissed him on the cheek and whispered a verse: ‘ _Whoever does not love does not know God, because God is love_.’ Scott was not religious, but in that moment, he thought he had understood.

While Jean picked a cassette tape from Scott’s growing collection, Scott turned the key. “Come on, baby,” he whispered as the engine purred to life. “Let’s go for a ride.”

The mall was the obvious first choice. It was easy to get lost there—they had in fact, on one occasion, lost Kurt and had spent three hours looking for him, only to find out that he’d found two old couple from Germany and had spent the day with them. Storm became his permanent chaperone.

After checking show times for the day, Jean, Scott, and Jubilee made their way to the newly-remolded GUESS store. Storm took Kurt for ice cream. Scott was glad for his parents every moment spent in the store; he walked away with two pairs of jeans for himself and was talked into overalls for both Jean and Jubilee. The three of them went for shoes next, and then to check out the new Nintendo thing that had everyone so impressed. He wasn’t.

Lunch passed in a blur of food-court pizza and Slurpees. They met up with Storm and Kurt afterwards at the record store, and by the end of their trip, Scott found himself holding more bags than he’d intended to at the start of their trip.

“This is why we don’t go to the mall anymore,” he panted when they finally dragged everything back to the Mustang.

Jean took a slip from her Slurpee. “On the bright side, Logan just might pounce on you after one look at your ass in those j—” She stopped herself a moment too late; their friends took a collective gasp, almost comical enough to make Scott forget the dread clawing at his stomach, and turned to him with a flurry of questions to which he didn’t have answers.

“Jean’s joking, of course,” Scott placated. He locked the car and began to walk away, hoping that would deflect further inquiries. Jubilee was not convinced. She caught Scott’s arm and walked in step with him, popping her bubblegum as ever.

“I thought you hated the guy.” _Pop_.

“I do.”

“Oooookay.” _Pop_.

“I _do_.”

“Okay!” She released him and skipped forward until she could take Jean’s arm as she had his. Scowling, Scott stayed back, and was eventually walking behind the whole group. They were relatively oblivious, eyes glued to the beautiful cars and beautiful people passing by. Wondering aimlessly was something they all enjoyed immensely; they had discovered niche book stores and quaint little cafes buried in the streets of New York that would never be found on a school trip or regulated path. It was on one of these corners that Scott saw Logan.

Scott shook his head and blinked a couple of times just to make sure he wasn’t simply daydreaming. But there he was, leather jacket and all, smoking a Cuban against the stones of an alleyway. The tension he seemed to permanently carry was gone, but Scott decided to keep his distance anyway. He didn’t want to interrupt; Logan was shedding some of the Wolverine, some of the rage and discomfort of his own body, with each hit from the cigar. His posture wasn’t quite inviting, but there was something suggestive about it. A dare. There were some people he’d let in, it said. Scott wanted to be one of those people, and he still didn’t know why.

A hand on in shoulder startled Scott out of his thoughts. He looked up at Storm—already taller than he without her heels—until he met her gaze. She looked neither worried nor relieved to have found Scott, simply accomplished. Scott appreciated that.

“We didn’t realize you’d left us.” Looking back at the group, she pointed at Scott. They cheered overzealously, sarcastically, probably because Jean had convinced them he had gotten himself lost in the big city. Scott rolled his eyes.

Scott glanced back down the alley, where Logan was tucking the remains of his cigar into his pocket. Storm tapped his forehead. “Find something?”

“Uh, someone,” he answered distractedly. Taking a deep breath, he scratched his head and craned his neck to look at her. “Listen ‘Ro, if it’s alright with you I’ll catch up with everyone later.”

“Don’t pretend you’re asking my permission, Scott,” she chided. Storm wagged her finger and continued, “I don’t need to be Jean to tell when you’ve made up your mind about something.”

“You always say ‘work as a team.’” Scott mimicked her voice and received a punch on the shoulder for it. He laughed.

Storm smiled affectionately. “And this team says to be back before the movie or we’re giving your ticket away to some other preppy asshole.” She turned away, her white heels clicking against the sidewalk.

“Noted!” Scott called after her, wincing when he realized he might have given himself away. But a glance down the alley showed Logan engaged in a quiet argument with one of the shop owners. It appeared she was trying to bar his entry. Logan’s response was a quiet threat, which, if the shotgun was any indication, the shopkeeper didn’t take too kindly. Scott used the moment to move further into the alley, where he ducked behind an outdoor display of second-hand sweaters. He watched Logan through the gaps.

The Wolverine returned in waves; Logan’s entire body tensed, his face contorted, and his claws rippled under the surface of his skin. The lips that Scott had been dreaming about curled into a snarl. Yet the shopkeeper remained unimpressed and unfazed, lazily shoving the shotgun’s muzzle into Logan’s abdomen. “We don’t serve your kind here,” she spat.

It was Logan’s turn to remain unfazed. He shrugged and reached into his jacket pocket, revealing a wad of cash sizable enough to earn a surprised gasp of pleasure from the woman. Lowering her gun, she glared at Logan but nevertheless beckoned him inside.

Scott felt sick. He pushed the sweaters back into place but remained on the ground, wide-eyed and shaking. His knuckles were white from gripping the bars of the display rack. When he finally stood, it was only to force his shaky legs into getting as far away from the alley as possible.

Professor Xavier had warned all of the students that they were likely to encounter ignorance outside the school and to proceed with caution. He had only told the older students, however, of the hunters, both human and mutant, who treated the capture and murder of mutants like sport. That shopkeeper had been one of the prominent photos in the presentation.

Scott swallowed down the betrayal—he told himself he felt it on behalf of the Professor—as he rounded the corner and exited the alleyway. Logan was selling them out and buying himself immunity from the hunt. It made sense; his frequent absences must have been hunts, and his refusal to establish relationships left him guilt-free. Scott almost ran back to the Mustang then, ready to mobilize his team and alert the Professor, before he remembered that his team was waiting for him to go see a movie, and that they weren’t fighters yet, not really. He stopped and finally took a deep, calming breath. A few pedestrians barked complaints at him. Ignoring them, Scott turned on his heel and walked back in the direction of the movie theater.

If there was trouble, the Professor already knew about it, of that much Scott was certain. There was a plan, and no need to panic. Scott exhaled. He repeated it like a mantra, more certain with each step. _There was a plan, and no need to panic_. Through finding Jean and the others in the theater, smiling and assuring them he’d found nothing interesting: _There was a plan, and no need to panic_. Through the movie that made him think of Dr. McCoy: _There was a plan, and no need to panic_. Through the drive back to the mansion: _There was a plan, and no need to panic_.

Scott entered the garage slowly, trying to be as quiet as possible. They were past curfew. This resulted in all of them separating once they left the garage, leaving Scott to, of course, panic.

He calmed somewhat when he saw the light under the Professor’s office door. A tentative knock was all he attempted; he did not want to interrupt. The door swung open wide enough for Scott to walk through, and then closed behind him. The Professor had not left his desk.

“I do believe there is a rule regarding students lurking around the halls at night, Mr. Summers.” Scott wrung his hands together and swallowed, standing awkwardly by the door. Without looking away from his book, Professor Xavier offered Scott a seat in front of his desk, which he accepted hesitantly.

“I’m sorry, I know I’m not supposed to be out—” He blurted, stopping when Xavier laughed.

“Scott, if I minded your leaving the mansion, do you think you would be able to? I appreciate that you are able to take some time from your studies and interact with non-mutants; in fact, it would be beneficial if all of my students could do that. You have nothing for which to be sorry.” He closed his book reverently and set it aside. “If that is your only worry, you may go, though I do not believe it is.” Folding his hands on his desk, the Professor regarded Scott inquisitively. Scott nodded.

“It’s Logan, sir.” He was surprised by how level his voice was.

Professor Xavier’s lip quirked. “What about him?”

“I saw him today outside of ‘M,’ that pawn shop you warned us about? He was paying the owner. I think, I think…” He trailed off, suddenly feeling very foolish as the Professor watched him. His voice was weaker when he continued, “He seemed to be buying something, probably with stolen money, and I think it was immunity. I think he’s selling us out. Sir.” Scott tacked the title on and hastily looked away, fighting a blush.

“Oh, Scott.” The Professor’s lip quirk morphed into a full smile. Scott gaped, eyebrows drawn together in confusion. “Your concern is... misplaced, is the best way to put it.” Scott closed his mouth. Clenching his teeth, he began to protest, only to be stopped by Xavier’s hand in the air.

“I sent Logan to the shop. He is looking for information, information concerning a certain mutant who may know key information about his past. The money he used is his own, won through rather crude underground cage fights that he frequents in his time away from the mansion and the search for his identity.”

Scott must have still looked skeptical, because the Professor added, “He is not malicious, Scott. Logan is simply lost."

Slumping back in his chair, Scott ran a hand over his face and sighed, eventually settling with his arms crossed over his stomach. He worked his jaw and stared at the grooves in Xavier’s desk. Exhaustion hit him suddenly, impromptu enough that Scott would have expected psychic suggestion if he didn’t know the Professor better than that. His eyelids heavy, Scott straightened a little to keep himself awake. The chair squeaked awkwardly. Scott mumbled an apology but shifted again, bringing his elbow to mouth to hide a wide yawn. He offered the Professor a guilty look, which was waved away.

“You may go.” Scott bowed his head in thanks and stood. Just before he reached the door, Xavier spoke again: “Promise me you will _try_ to talk to him, Scott. That is all I ask.”

Shoulders dropping, Scott rested his forehead against the door and fought a frown. He had tried. _Trying_ to get along with Logan was like trying to tame a feral wolf. Even if you took it to your home and fed it and called it your friend, there was always the chance of making one wrong move and losing an arm. Scott didn’t use that analogy when he replied. He simply asked, “Why did you put him in my room?”

“It could help him remember his past, and help you recover. Jean came to me with some concern over your frequent nightmares. Logan came to me with a forgotten past and an uncertain future, yet I know that you fit into the former somehow.” He paused, leaning forward. “Even if you had no influence then, you can _now_.” His voice was hopeful.

Scott stifled an incredulous laugh, opened the door, and left the office.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *shows up 4 years later to update with starbucks* new fic who dis
> 
> In all seriousness, wow, hey everyone. Look what I've done. I hope you enjoyed. And I hope you'll continue to stick around.


	5. Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is dedicated to every one of you who commented on the last chapter. You keep this fic going.

At one in the morning a heavy rain was falling. Scott was restless; he hadn’t been able to sleep after his brief conference with the Professor, and then the rain had started, thunderous and fierce outside his window. He was alone in the room—Logan hadn’t returned from town reeking of smoke and sex like usual—yet he found himself incapable of sleep. The gnawing in his stomach was not worry, not for Logan. He would not let that man keep him up another night. But he watched the arms of the clock shift to two, to three. Growling in frustration, Scott threw the covers off and, wearing only his tank top and pajama bottoms, left his room.

He wasn’t entirely sure where he planned to go. His first thought was Jean, but he didn’t want to wake her. Or worry her. Shivering slightly, Scott made his way to the front of the mansion. A small hallway after the classrooms brought him to a forgotten—to most students, anyway—door, which led outside. Roughly forty feet away was the side entrance to the garage. Scott braced himself for the storm, taking a deep breath and shaking his weary muscles before he ran.

The rain was relentless, beating down on Scott’s neck and back. His bare feet dragged through grass and mud before hitting pavement. He gritted his teeth, concentrating—if he could make it to the door, it would be dry, warm, _quiet_ —

Scott ripped the door open and practically fell inside. The wind fought him as he closed it. After a brief struggle though, it banged shut, leaving Scott to the darkness.

Except it wasn’t dark. It should have been, but the ceiling lights were blinding. Scott held a hand up to shield his eyes from their glare as he blinked. He frowned as he brought his hand down, and his confusion only grew as he noticed a motorcycle parked next to his Mustang, one he’d never seen before. It was beautiful.

Scott glanced around the garage, eyed the door, and then made his way over to the bike. On closer inspection it was a Harley, just over a year old. He couldn’t see the shock absorbers, which meant… He smiled, a little breathless still. If he could just get his hands on it—

“Don’t even think about it.”

Scott jumped back, proud that he at least didn’t yelp as well. Logan was leaning against the wall, his expression a mixture of annoyance and surprise, as if his face couldn’t quite make up its mind. Quirked eyebrow, lips pressed in a thin line. His arms were crossed over his chest, covering his dirty white t-shirt. He looked untouched by the downpour.

Taking a few steps back, Scott curled his lip. He shook his head and felt raindrops dripping down his neck, face, and chin from his hair. They scattered on the floor and joined the puddle at his feet. He was soaked through. Grimacing, he wrung his tank top out, and then used it to dry his face. Scott thought he saw Logan eye the strip of skin he exposed with the movement, but just as quickly as he looked to confirm that thought, Logan turned his shoulder and walked toward the Harley. Scott let his shirt fall back down and shook his head. It wasn’t worth it to dwell on this fantasy. Even so, he let himself watch Logan for a moment, envious of his dry clothes and carefree attitude. Scott, soaked and—though he did want to admit it—worked up just by being in the same room as Logan, the fucking brute, couldn’t figure out if he wanted to rip Logan’s clothes off to steal them or to get his hands on him. Probably both.

“She’s beautiful,” Scott remarked eventually, just to break the tension in the air. ”That’s a what, ’84 Softail? The new 1340cc V² Evolution engine.”

Logan nodded, looking impressed. “You know bikes?”

Scott cocked his head from side to side, shrugging. As he made his way over to his Mustang, back toward Logan, he decided to brag a little. “More or less. I’m mostly interested in cars, since I’ve been working with them and planes since I was a kid. But I like to keep up with Harley products. We definitely don’t have any here. I mean, I barely got permission to bring _my_ car.” He paused, surprised that Logan was still listening. They didn’t have the best track record with conversations; it was unusual if they exchanged more than two sentences a day.

“This is mine,” he added proudly, patting the Mustang. Logan whistled approvingly.

Suddenly a towel was flying toward Scott, and he caught it with a _huff_ of surprise, curling his hand around the dry material gratefully. The first thing he did was towel off his handprint on the car, a perfect impression made of rainwater. Logan chuckled. Scott offered him a sardonic grin and then set to work on himself, swiping the towel down his arms before scrubbing his hair furiously. He was sure he looked ridiculous, but found that he didn’t care. Logan was regarding him with something approaching approval. That was enough.

“So are you just going to keep staring, or do you want to take a look under the hood?” Scott blinked, hoping it hadn’t sounded too suggestive. Logan just rubbed his hands together and stepped over to Scott’s Mustang. Scott lost a little more of his tension.

“You know, the first time I pulled in here and saw her, I considered taking her for a ride” Logan confessed, making a lap around the Mustang. Stopping when he reached the hood again, he looked over his shoulder at Scott, assessing his reaction to the news.

“That wouldn’t have ended well for you,” Scott said, meaning it.

“Is that so?” Logan seemed like he wanted to comment on Scott’s assuredness, but decided against it. Yet the question had felt cocky at best, belittling at worst, and Scott was annoyed again in a flash. He went about popping the hood with as much frustration as he could without harming the car in some way—loud, short movements—and when he was done, stepped back out of Logan’s way. He kept at least a foot of space between himself and Logan as Logan got closer, and was clearly headed for the door when Logan first put his hands on the engine.

“You’re not going to stay?”

Scott narrowed his eyes. “I’m not here to dog-sit you.” Sparing a thought for how good Logan looked bent over the Mustang, Scott turned on his heel and walked away.

“It’s still raining out there,” Logan called after him.

Scott rolled his eyes. He wasn’t planning to leave the garage, leave his baby, to Logan. He just didn’t want him getting any ideas that they were going to be friends. Instead of giving Scott the chance to explain this, though, Logan took Scott’s silence as consideration. “Look, you might as well wait it out. And what kind of teacher would I be if I let my student get pneumonia?”

Scott whirled around so fast he almost slipped. “ _Teacher_?” Recovering, red-faced, he shook his head incredulously. “Bullshit.”

“Not bullshit. I’m your substitute while Mrs., uh,” he waved his hand in the air like he was swatting a fly away, “whatever-her-name-is is away on maternity leave.” Thankfully, he ignored the clumsy turn-around. Logan was much more interested Scott’s _interest_.

“Mrs. Manh?” Scott smiled despite himself. Known to the students in combat training as Karma, Xi'an Coy Manh was the school’s primary language professor. She and her wife had announced a year ago that they were planning to have a child. Drs. McCoy and Xavier had filled in some at the start of her leave, but neither of them spoke Vietnamese, Chinese, or Japanese, so Xavier had been searching for someone else for a while.

“That’s the one.”

“You speak more than English?” Scott leaned against an old Cadillac that had been collecting dust for a while, crossed his arms, and waited.

Logan actually looked offended. Scott was secretly pleased that he’d finally gotten under his skin a little. Straightening, Logan stared at Scott and curled his lip. “English, Japanese, French, Russian, Chinese, Cheyenne, Lakota, Spanish, Thai, and Vietnamese,” he listed, smug.

Gaping, Scott searched for words. “Oh. That’s. Um.” He let out a puff of breath and closed his mouth. When he opened it again, all he managed was, “A lot, and uh, impressive. Sorry.”

Logan nodded once, accepting the apology. But Scott wasn’t good at boundaries; he loved to push people, and while it was usually for unselfish reasons, like helping his friends access and control their powers, sometimes it went beyond that. “The Professor told me you lost your memory. How do you still know ten languages?”

“I didn’t lose all of it.” Logan’s voice was low and dangerous. It was a warning: stop while you still can. Scott wasn’t good at that either. And now—now he was curious. But if this was going to be his first and last opportunity to truly _talk_ to Logan, he was not planning to waste it, so he changed tactics.

“You were what, shot or something? Major head trauma? Me too.” Scott tapped his visor. “I lost almost all control of my powers. But I didn’t lose all of it.” He emphasized the last part, hoping it would make Logan speak again. The silence stretched for a little; it wasn’t uncomfortable, really, just a long period of quiet where Scott just watched Logan. Waited. Until finally:

“I don’t know what happened. All I know is I woke up surrounded by dead bodies and blood. Some French dude told me to find Charles Xavier, so I did. He tells me I saved some lives and traded part of my own for it. I don’t know if that’s true. But I’m here now trying to find out if it is.”

Scott choked down the memories of the island and nodded. “You saved my life. You saved a lot of our lives.” Scott wasn’t surprised by how small his voice was.

Logan finally met Scott’s gaze, and when he did, Scott felt a stab of want right through his core. There was a crack in Logan’s usually guarded look, something confused and wounded, like a wild animal in a hunter’s snare. Scott wanted to kiss it away, pull the wild animal out of that trap. He wondered what it would be like to be with Logan in the garage, maybe even in the Mustang, surrounded by the smell of leather and engine grease and metal.

So he looked away, hoping Logan read it as a simple desire not to remember that Scott would have died on that island without him.

Logan cleared his throat. “Brain trauma, huh? It only hurts when your eyes are open?”

Scott laughed bitterly. “Something like that.” Logan continued staring, and Scott sighed. He didn’t like telling the story, but he figured he owed it to Logan after what the man had shared.

Finally feeling the effects of the rain, Scott shivered, wishing he was dry enough to climb into the driver’s seat and turn the heat on high. He settled for sitting with his back against the front tire, close enough to Logan to maintain a conversation without having to look at him and deal with… whatever the hell this was. Logan didn’t seem to mind; he went back to his inspection of the Mustang.

“When I was seven or eight, my parents and I were flying home from vacation when we were attacked. I still don’t know why. No one does. But there was only one parachute, so my parents sent me and my brother out on it together. They both died, and we ended up on the ground. Alex was okay. Scared, but okay. I uh, I hit my head pretty hard, wound up in a coma for a year.” Scott swallowed before going on, “When I came to they told me Alex was here at the mansion, but that I was getting adopted. A year of headaches—like, head-splitting, ‘I’m going to die like this headaches’—later, I got these.” He poked the visors. “Well, like, a shittier version of them from some non-mutant doctor. My powers manifested, Striker came looking.”

Scott decided to stop there. He didn’t want to go into details about what had happened to him, and above all else, Alex.

“Anyway, I can’t control my powers without these.”

“Hm. I thought you were just trying to start a new fashion.”

“Was that a joke? I didn’t know you could joke.”

“Hey, you’d better watch it, I know where you sleep.”

Scott laughed, shaking his head. He wanted to say that he was glad Logan knew where he slept. That it was a damn shame it wasn’t the exact same place Logan slept. He let the laugh fade out into a breath and sighed until there was no sound; this time, the silence was distinctly tenser, the space stretching between them with things unsaid. Scott wondered if his things unsaid we the same as Logan’s, and then rolled his eyes at himself. Logan was probably just wondering what he needed to say to get Scott to leave him alone. Scott leaned his head back against the tire and closed his eyes. When he opened them, Logan was standing to his right, shadow casting over Scott. Scott jumped. “Dude, what the fuck?”

“You shouldn’t sleep out here.”

“I wasn’t.”

Logan shrugged and crossed his arms, not allowing Scott any more space, but not moving closer either. Scott tried not to stare. Scott tried to breathe. He could feel the warmth radiating off of Logan’s body and wanted to be wrapped up in it, wanted that warmth _inside_ of him, and the thought made him press his back into the tire until he was sure get bruised, just to distance himself from that heat. And of course Logan noticed, and of course everything about him changed in an instant; he went back to being guarded, any hurt or dismay from Scott’s withdrawing masked by years—how many years exactly? Scott wondered—of practice. It’s a hard mask and not a pleasant one to look at. Though not scared of Logan, Scott understood why people who passed him on the street would be.

Scott tucked his knees against his chest and looked to the clock on the wall. It was nearly four AM; there was no reason to try to sleep now, no matter how much his body was begging him for even just two measly hours. Still, he wouldn’t mind getting to his room, taking a shower, and finding some dry clothes. So:

“When are you planning to leave?” It was not an even question, leaning more toward accusation than curiosity. Logan curled his lip.

“Not soon enough, I guess.”

Scott laughed, a little shocked that Logan was willing to stoop to his level and be so petty, which pissed Logan off more. This time, he bent low, slamming his hand against the wheel Scott was using as back support. The whole car shook. “Watch it—!”

“Listen, kid,” Logan interrupted, and they were back at it again, disdainful glares and Scott’s lust and Logan’s anger. He was close, so very close. Scott realized he could kiss him. Absentmindedly, his gaze flicked to Logan’s mouth; Logan was licking his lips, probably just soothing the dryness that came from working in the garage, but Scott thought it seemed much more like an opportunity. He truly considered taking it, just for a moment. The moment was lost when Logan leaned back on his heels and tried to adopt a stance that crowded Scott a little less. “You’re my student now, and I get you’re _the guy_ in this place,” he said amusedly, and Scott scoffed, “but I’m not interested in your little high-school rivalry bullshit. This isn’t some Alpha male game or whatever the fuck you’re pulling. I’m here for a favor from the Professor, and I’m paying him back the only way I can right now. I’d appreciate if you stopped trying to annoy me every waking moment, and either stick to ignoring me, or work with me here.”

Scott had some interesting retorts stored that he forgot by the time Logan had finished. Remembering what Xavier had said to him about their shared past, he considered for a moment that he and Logan had had a very similar discussion. Trauma, healing, etc.—the Professor and Dr. McCoy were very fond of reminding Scott that they were there to help with those things, but only if Scott volunteered, of course. It seemed they’d finally pushed into the ‘involuntary participation’ stage of the healing process.

Standing, Scott forced Logan to do the same. He glared at him for a moment before brushing past, closing the hood before—for good this time—deciding to leave the garage. Logan did not try to stop him.

The downpour had stopped. It had left behind a heavy feeling, rather than relief, and the air was sticky and oppressive. Scott walked slowly anyway. He let the air fog his visor and walked blindly for a while before wiping the condensation away, letting his feet carry him back inside the mansion. Lights were starting to come on—some students took early runs, some were only just returning to their own bedrooms—so Scott walked carefully, quietly, trying not to attract too much attention. Of course, physical silence was only so helpful when there were telepaths in the school.

“Ooh baby, you’re soaked, and not in a fun way.” Emma’s voice was syrupy. Scott rolled his neck, listening to it crack, and exhaled through his nose.

“Can’t you just go finish sucking out the poor bastard’s soul who forgot you were the devil last night and leave me alone, Emma?”

She laughed, cold and confident. “Well it wasn’t his _soul_ I was sucking…”

Scott sucked his teeth and kept walking. He was angry with the Professor, angry with himself for taking it out on Logan, and knew Emma would be the next target if she kept at him. He was sure she wouldn’t mind the challenge. But he was too open, too vulnerable, to pick a fight that he could win.

“Don’t you want to know who it _was_ ?” Emma asked in a sing-song voice. She loved her taunts. Practically gliding forward, she pushed her lips against Scott’s ear and whispered, “ _Logan_.”

Scott chuckled. He couldn’t help himself; a small bark of laughter turned into a breathless wave. Emma’s face went round with shock. She concealed it a moment too late by narrowing her eyes, but Scott had caught her, and she knew it.

“Cute, Em, but I was just with him.” Scott continued laughing as she froze. Having the upper hand was intoxicating; he had every intention of sharing this with his friends, and then who knew where it would go from there? And Emma knew this, Emma knew—

Scott stopped abruptly. “Oh.”

Emma, the white of her teeth showing in a predatory expression somewhere between a smile and a snarl, cocked her head to the side and regarded Scott. She blinked slowly. “Logan, then? My, my, I never pegged you for the older-guys type, but I guess he does have that big, rugged _man_ quality about him.”

Chewing the inside of his cheek, Scott tried to breathe slowly. But Emma had him now.

“I’m not—”

“Queer? Oh, please, you may fool everyone else, but I’ve been up here.” She punctuated the statement by tapping Scott’s temple, and he flinched away, nostrils flaring. “Does he know?”

Scott looked away.

“Does he know,” she repeated, voice smooth as silk, “how much you want to fuck him?”

“I don’t,” Scott bit back, finally remembering to move his feet. Emma kept up with him easily despite his height and quickened pace.

She waved her hand, unconvinced. “Right, right, you hate him, blah blah. That’s so _boring,_ Scott. It makes you _boring_. I think you just don’t want to get hurt. You know you could fall in love with him, and you don’t want it to end with your heart on the floor. I understand.” Suddenly, her tone changed, and Scott slowed. “Scott, just—stop a moment. Please.”

Curious, he did. They weren’t far from his room now. Scott could see a sliver of light from under the door.

“I’m going to be honest here. Logan—he’ll love someone ‘til they’re dead.” She paused, shrugged, inhaled quietly. “You know, he’ll even love them after that. But Scott,” Emma took him by the shoulders before continuing, “He’ll never love _you_.”

Scott felt like someone had dropped acid into his stomach. He pushed Emma away, who was laughing as he had before, but with more cruelty than he could imagine to direct toward her. She waved him away into his room, delicate fingers and ice-blue nails shining under the mansion’s nightlights.

He shut the door too quickly, resting against it once it was closed. His breath bounced back from the wood, hot on his cheek, also too fast. Logan’s voice— _of course, always his voice_ Scott thought—pulled him back.

“Are you alright?”

Without looking back, Scott nodded despite feeling utterly sick. _Queer_? Emma’s voice played over and over in his head. It changed to the voices before Xavier, the ones that said it and meant it, the ones that were followed by fists and feet. Scott had learned to defend himself early. Just not early enough.

“You don’t look it.”

“Huh, what gave it away?” Taking a deep breath, more a gulp than anything else, Scott turned until he could see Logan but kept his place on the door. He realized he was shivering. Again.

“I hate to say I told you so, but…” Logan gestured with his hand to Scott’s clothes, so wet they stuck to him. He glanced around the floor for something.

“What’re you—No, I don’t think I have pneumonia, Logan.” Scott watched, increasingly confused, as Logan dug into a basket of laundry.

“But you don’t know for sure.”

“No, I guess not, but I don’t see why—”

“Here,” Logan interrupted again. He had something, maybe a shirt, balled up in his hand. He shoved in into Scott’s. It was warm to the touch, soft, and durable, and Scott found himself wanting to bury his face against it.

Scott’s lip quirked. “Flannel?”

Logan raised his eyebrows as if daring Scott to comment. He decided not to and instead accepted the shirt and moved away from the door. When he took his shirt off, fully baring his chest to Logan this time, Logan’s expression remained neutral, and Scott reluctantly chalked the look in the garage up to imagination and exhaustion.

“Maybe I used to be a lumberjack,” Logan said affably. He stepped aside. “Anyway, don’t put that on before you dry off. But then you can wear it until you’re warm.”

Some prideful part of Scott’s mind wanted him to refuse. He had his own clothes, and was capable of taking care of himself. He crushed the thought with the recent memory of how Logan’s fingers had felt against his when he gave him the shirt. So he thanked Logan sincerely and took the shirt with him to the bathroom, where he did have the chance to bury his face in it, and took that chance. It didn’t smell like much except the dryer and the forest, a heady mix of heat and earth that Scott realized was a lot like Logan. He grinned into the fabric before setting it on the counter and reaching for a towel.

Drying off, Scott wondered if Logan had realized he wasn’t angry with him. Scott had wanted to laugh back in the garage when Logan had called their issues ones of ‘alpha male’ problems. It was frustratingly absurd, but, he supposed, not a shocking conclusion when the truth was something plenty of men found unthinkable.

The shirt was far too broad, but not overly long, still allowing a pretty clear view of Scott’s boxers. Scott pulled at the bottom as he exited the bathroom. He didn’t have his alarm clock anymore, but guessed it was sometime close to or after five. After grabbing a water bottle, he picked up his notebook and physics textbook and set to work, sitting cross-legged on his bed. It was mind-numbing and monotonous work, but work that required concentration nonetheless. And Logan was a constant distraction.

At half past five, it was:

“You have a fucking _sword_?”

“It’s a _katana_. I’m bringing it to my Japanese class tomorrow.”

At six:

“How’d you get a _katana_?”

“Pretty sure I fought in a couple of wars.”

By quarter past six, Scott had taken to just staring at Logan, who was absorbed in various language textbooks. Every once in awhile he would shake his head, mutter to himself, and correct something in the text. He didn’t seem to notice Scott’s attention. Scott found himself staring more and more because of this; within 5 minutes he had memorized the way Logan’s muscles curved, the way his collarbone jutted, the line of his jaw, the way his fingers moved over a page. He was especially interested in this last detail—and wondered if Logan’s fingers would brush over skin the same way. He was still contemplating this when Logan closed his books and stood. Rolling his shoulders slightly, Logan pulled a pocket watch from his jeans and nodded to himself.

Scott quickly looked down, eyes landing on a random, half-solved problem in his notebook. He realized it was wrong and frowned. While he erased it, Logan packed his things. Scott kept his attention on his paper until Logan had left and then laid down, staring at the ceiling until his eyes unfocused and then staring until they watered. He quickly blinked them dry. Next, he counted the seconds, keeping the minutes until he thought it was close to seven. When it was, he decided to get dressed. If he had the time correct, class began in 15 minutes, and though he doubted his mind could follow Dr. McCoy’s lecture after another sleepless night, he preferred not to be on the furball’s bad side.

The five-minute bell rang while Scott was still deliberating if he wanted to wear Logan’s flannel into class, brag about it to Emma a little. Scott almost threw the shirt down onto Logan’s bed. Almost. Just before he let go of it, fingers coiled around the material—still warm from his body, still smelling of Logan—Scott folded it haphazardly and shoved it into a box in his closet. He peered over his shoulder after closing it just to make sure Logan wasn’t there even though he knew he wasn’t. Chiding himself, he grabbed his bookbag and headed for the door, remembering only at the last moment to double-back and grab his Spanish textbook. He’d need it after lunch.


End file.
